


Red Hands, Slow Burn (Hiatus Until Further Notice)

by Moonspite



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:19:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonspite/pseuds/Moonspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Samson is sentenced to rot in the Skyhold prison, he stews in his bitterness until the Inquisitor, Piers Trevelyan, pays him a visit. But then, Samson makes Piers an interesting offer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Hands, Slow Burn (Hiatus Until Further Notice)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a good bit of editing here and I added on a lot of content, lol. I like it a lot better now!

Samson imagined that there were worse things in the world than living as a prisoner of the Inquisition. Even if the food was grey and the company even drearier, he could still boast that the certainty of having a full belly was worth more than languishing in the cold of the Lowtown streets.

Occasionally, he thought about what might happen as soon as his captors harvested every single bit of usable information out of him. If nameless, faceless servants stopped delivering him food and he was left rotting, and sweating out the last dregs of Lyrium in his system until he looked like and felt like a dried-out old husk.

The old man couldn’t help but laugh a little whenever this was brought to mind.

Samson had very nearly resigned himself to that fate until the Inquisitor came to visit him one day.

The first time he’d heard people address Piers Trevelyan as the ‘Herald of Andraste,’ he let out a groan so loud that he swore people in Orlais could have heard it. He was familiar with the whole song and dance of pretentious horseshit. The Chantry had damn near made it into an art form – as well as a contest.

Piers  was all angles and red hair – something that made him look simultaneously sharp and delicate, like the colored, artisan glass that decorated the windows of the Kirkwall Chantry. All of it was still fresh in Samson’s mind even after all those years. He despised the beauty of it – extravagant to the point of being disgusting -- and he expected he’d hate the Inquisitor just as much.

Oh, but Samson loved Piers’ long red hair – something that Samson would eventually stroke and pull once the two of them were in bed together.

Long, red hair that fell back, vibrant against the dull cream of Piers’ pillows while he laid there, moaning like a whore while Samson had his mouth around his cock.

Gorgeous, red hair slick with sweat from when Samson had Piers’ legs thrown over his shoulders while Samson was inside of him.

Beautiful, violently red hair that Samson buried his face into.

Samson constantly stank of self-loathing and it only got worse when he realized how much he lusted after that boy – and the fantasies did nothing to help.

When Piers started hounding Samson about the red lyrium, Samson obliged, realizing the pointlessness of lying, or even withholding information. Samson was essentially declawed and toothless after his capture.

However, somewhere inside him, there was a spark of ambition – though, boredom was more likely – that compelled him to challenge the young inquisitor.

“I was thinkin’, actually,” Samson said, his voice as thick as mud. “That I could give you whatever you’re after and more if you’d be willing to do me a favor.”

Piers gave him a skeptical look. “And what would that be…?”

There was a sound of metal scraping against stone when Samson picked himself up to approach the bars of his cell. He regarded the younger man with a sharp interest. Maker, Piers was tall. He could easily have been six and a half feet and definitely towered over the barely five-eleven Samson. If Piers had more muscle mass, he could have been considered intimidating, but as spindly as he was, the only thing he looked like he could scare was a kitten.

Samson cleared his throat. “I can tell you where the last of the red lyrium mines are. No need to waste time and manpower sniffing them all out. I can even feed you some of Corypheus’s secrets. Being his general came with its own benefits.”

Piers opened his mouth to say something, but Samson held up a hand.

“–And yes. _Yes_ , you can let that obnoxious dwarf of yours _study_ me if that tickles your fancy, boy.”

“Yes, well. That’s quite an offer – but what are you asking for in _return_ , Samson?”

“I’d like you to visit me. –Everyday. Keep an old man company, won’t you?” He flashed Piers a smile that only a dirty old man could make. Confused and nonplussed about the request, Piers cocked an eyebrow.

“I could just send Cullen to –“

“I ain’t interested in listening to that blowhard lecture me on ‘what a good man I used to be.’ “ Samson snapped. “—But you’re a fresh face. And I’m rather interested in you. –So, what do you say?”

For a minute, Piers considered Samson’s offer and what good it would do him and the Inquisition – if he was truly getting that desperate. However, it seemed like such a small request compared to anything else Samson could have asked for – as much lyrium he could consume, his freedom. The list went on.

Finally, Piers breathed out a sigh. “Alright. But since you’ve stated _your_ terms, I’ll give you _mine_.”

“Um-hm.”

“Everything you give me has to be the honest-to-Maker truth. –And,” He paused. “Our visits are only going to last an hour.”

Samson nodded in approval, satisfied that he was granted his insignificant little request. However, Piers hadn’t finished.

“But – if you continue to give me useful information, I can make it worth your while.” A pause. “You’ll get to have a stroll around Skyhold – in chains, of course – a few times a week. And naturally, I’ll be joining you. Do we have a deal then, Samson…?”

Due to the boastful nature of Piers’ claims, Samson was tempted to laugh right in his face. If there was anything the old man knew about promises like these, it was that they were about as flimsy as a piece of paper. Something about the boy caused Samson’s resolve to soften, however.

“I think I can agree to that. Let’s hope you deliver.”

“Likewise. Shall we shake on it, then?”

Piers held out his hand, which Samson quickly accepted. The old man’s skin was course, almost sharp against Piers’ smooth flesh. It felt like Samson was holding on for a moment or two longer than necessary. Peering up at the boy with those eerie, blood shot eyes of his, Samson chuckled darkly.

“I’m lookin’ forward to seeing you again, O Herald of Andraste.”

\-----------

Samson was sure to make good on his offer.

His visit to the War Table was kept as short as humanly possible in order to prevent any kind of tension between him and Cullen from reaching a boiling point. If Cullen kept his trap shut, then so would he, Samson decided.

‘Mark the maps. Don’t say nothing. Clear out with the boy when it’s done. Back to the cell.’ The old man told himself. ‘Nice and easy.’

To Samson’s surprise, his former friend didn’t utter a single word to him throughout the entire event. There was a brief moment where their eyes met, but Cullen had been quick to avert his gaze. He looked more defeated than angry. Regardless of how he was feeling, Cullen had eyes that always made Samson picture a hound that thought it had done something wrong.

The meeting was over almost as soon as it started. Samson swore he’d gotten blowjobs that lasted longer than that, but he was secretly praising Piers for keeping it as short as it was – he was nearly doubled over in gut-wrenching agony by the time he was returned to his cell.

-

Piers’ decisions as Inquisitor were often interpreted as kind and merciful, with the number of prisoners he’d recruited as part of the Inquisition’s ever-growing forces. The truth of it, however, was that his rationale for letting them live was more rooted in practicality than any genuine kindness he felt for them. The world would go on with or without those people, but keeping them on as glorified work horses was not only useful – but also quite satisfying.

Samson’s judgment was no different. By some stroke of good luck, the former Templar was captured shortly after the events that took place at Therinfal Redoubt. Though Piers was not there himself, the report given to him stated that once Samson had been defeated, he’d accepted, even resigned, to his capture.

So much for the General of the Red Templars. Still, Piers was curious. Two weeks had passed and he was due to visit the old man.

 A miasma of smells hit Piers all at once: vomit, body odor, sweat. He winced and nearly gagged, eyes watering from the stench. The floor of the cell was slick and filmy while Samson sat in the corner, hugging his knees to his chest.

‘I think the horses have received better treatment than this.’ Piers noted disapprovingly. He cleared his throat and called out to his prisoner.

“Samson?”

There was a weak grunt in response. Samson stayed glued to his spot. Sighing through his nose, Piers approached the bars to the prisoner’s cell.

“Are you awake, then? …How are you feeling?”

 A deep sense of resentment took root inside of Samson. His stomach churned, making him want to slit open his belly and release all his guts onto the floor. His weeks without even a tiny fleck of the red shit were finally starting to catch up with him. It was ravaging his body to the point where he was starting to crave death more than anything else.

Piers might as well have ordered Samson to be tortured, having spared the old man from death and giving him a place in the Inquisition.

Right then, Samson despised Piers so much that his body ached from it. In those following weeks, the boy’s initial novelty was quickly twisted into loathing where he saw him for what he really was – a vulture.

With great difficulty, Samson moved from his place on the floor to where his visitor stood.

 “What d’you want.” Samson growled through his teeth, forcing himself to say _something_. His jaw was fixed, taut.

“I was hoping to thank you, actually – a small chunk of those outcroppings you’d marked up have been destroyed already.”

“Hnn. I was half-expectin’ to have missed the mark. Mind’s been foggy since I was thrown in here.” Samson weakly gripped the cell bars, anchoring himself.  “You’ll have to excuse me for not being real enthusiastic about all this. As you can see, I’m kind of a fucking mess.”

“I couldn’t tell.” Piers allowed scanned the miserable-looking cage, growing disgusted and then, irritated at its state. “—Has _anyone_ come to see you at all? To bring you food? _Anything_?”

“Ain’t been able to keep anything down the past few days.”

“And no one’s come to clean this place? They’ve just – let you _lay_ in this?” Piers felt his voice rise in anger.

“Couple days ago, yeah. What’s it matter to you, anyway.” Samson croaked. He shut his eyes, resting his forehead against the bars, too exhausted to argue. It took a moment for the Inquisitor to formulate a response.

 “…You’re a prisoner of the Inquisition. And you _work_ for me – if you’re kept in these pathetic conditions, you’ll die. And whatever usefulness you’ve got will be lost to me.” Piers replied coldly.

It was hard for Samson to discern whether Piers was actually being compassionate and doing his best to hide it or if he was telling the truth and was as ruthlessly pragmatic as Samson was told. However, Samson mentally squashed that notion. He had no such comforting illusions anymore.

“If you say so. You’re gonna tell your men to fix this place up, then?”

Piers paused for a moment as he considered that. It would greatly improve Samson’s morale if he was properly treated for his withdrawal symptoms and moved out of that hellhole.  And better yet if he was given a proper room.

“I was thinking of something different, actually. You’ve done me – and the Inquisition – a service, and I mentioned those weeks ago that you’d be given a reward…?” There was a pause. “In addition to what I’m _already_ giving you – the visits, the walks around Skyhold I promised – I want to move you to…some better quarters, if you’d like?”

“…You’re fucking with me, aren’t you.” Samson opened his eyes, the lids still heavy.

He started to remember the days he spent on the streets of Lowtown, how he lived as a beggar and the utter humiliation of it all. Piers’ offer rekindled the feelings of rage he had that pushed him into Corypheus’s arms in the first place.

Suddenly, Samson was very, very awake.

“—Listen boy, I ain’t interested in your fuckin’ charity, and that’s the end of it.” He growled, squeezing out the last drop of energy he had to snarl at the other man. “I’m not your fuckin’ prized pony and I sure as hell ain’t interested in being one.”

“So…what, you’d be content living in squalor, then?” Piers asked flatly, raising an eyebrow. “By all means, go ahead. But I’d like to think you’ve got enough self-preservation to see how ridiculous you’re being.”

Samson was too tired to argue at that point. If he wasn’t propped up against the bars of his cell, he’d have toppled over into a puddle of his own mess long before Piers made his suggestion. A minute or so later, Samson’s knees buckled and he fell to the floor like a ragdoll before passing out.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Piers pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Amazing…Right. I’ll. Make the arrangements, then.”


End file.
